


Three Days With The World's Most Handsome Man

by amproof



Category: Music RPF, Robbie Williams (Musician), State of Play (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-03
Updated: 2010-11-03
Packaged: 2017-10-13 01:07:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/131115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amproof/pseuds/amproof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the emotional fallout from the events of The State of Play, Cal takes a 180 turn from his usual fare and decides to interview a celebrity.  He doesn't expect to get one who can read him so well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Days With The World's Most Handsome Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [karaokegal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/karaokegal/gifts).



> In Feb. 2009, [](http://karaokegal.livejournal.com/profile)[**karaokegal**](http://karaokegal.livejournal.com/) requested Cal/Robbie. This has been on my hard drive since then. It in no way comes close to fulfilling the slashy goodness I'm sure she envisioned.  
>  Disclaimer: Robbie Williams is not mine. Cal McCaffrey is a fictional character in the mini-series State of Play played by John Simm. Also not mine.  
> Spoilers: For the end of State of Play.  
> Notes 2: Over the years, I have read so many Robbie articles, not to mention written an entire novel using him as a model for my character, so when I found this draft again, I had to question whether or not the quotes were something I created or something he said. Every word in here is mine. The things that I say happen did not, thankfully, happen. This occurs before Robbie meets his future wife.

"Three Days With the World's Most Handsome Man"  
by Cal McCaffrey, special to GQ UK, February 2009

When I first see Robbie Williams, he is ready for me.

A black sports car has squealed to a stop in front of me in front of his house, which is the size of a castle. It towers over the Hollywood Hills like a fairytale. The window goes down, and Robbie Williams is grinning at me.

"Get in."

This is a test. Neither of us says it, but I've asked permission for an all access interview, and it hasn't been granted yet. I get in the car.

"You're slumming with me, aren't you?" he says.

He's done his research. Before I can make the polite denial, he produces a stack of clipped articles from beneath his hip. With a glance, I recognize them as mine.

"Tell me about this."

He has the article about my friend David that destroyed his life. The article that I wrote.

"I'm good at reading between the lines. You were fucking his wife," he says.

He _is_ good. It doesn't mention anywhere in the article that I have any knowledge of David. It's not the first indication I've had not to take Robbie Williams (both names for the creature who is more entity than man) for granted, but it's the strongest one so far.

"I loved her first." I'm not going to go into it--already I'm thinking about leaving this conversation out of the article, not liking how maudlin it makes me seem. Plus, I've read too many articles about Robbie where I've learned more about the reporter than I have about him. Later, I keep it in because it's an example of how insightful, scarily so, Robbie can be.

"I've heard that one before. What's the matter—did respectable journalism prove too much for you?"

He does a 360 in the cul-de-sac behind the gates that keep the teeming masses out. I am belted in, but the force sends me careening into him. My hands flies out to catch myself, and I end up landing it on the steering wheel, right over his. He grins at me and sends the wheel spinning in the other direction.

"I thought you didn't have a license," I say. I don't know what I'm hoping for. That he'll come to his senses and call us a cab doesn't seem likely.

"I don't."

"Maybe we should stop."

He throws the car into reverse and peels out. My stomach hits my throat.

"Was she pretty?"

"Yes."

"Man," he says, sounding like he's been there, lost his mind for a woman, and that seems to sum up everything.

#

  
Two weeks later, I am back at his home for an extended interview. He has granted me—or his people have—no holds barred for three days. I arrive at his home early. A woman who I assume is a housekeeper or a maid shows me into a sitting room. There is a piano with a few sheets of hand written music on it. I sit down and pick out what notes I can. I don't hear anyone come in, but as I finish, a hand takes the score away, and I look up to see my host.

"Lisa didn't realize you were a reporter. Usually, we would show your kind to the kitchen."

"I'm sorry."

He grins. "Only taking the mick. Come on."

Robbie Williams is always in motion. Even when he sits, there is bouncing in his legs, his hands, his mind, always moving. It is easy to see how he has succumbed to addiction time after time.

#

  
"The rumours are true."

Robbie Williams is standing in the middle of his kitchen, stark naked, and pointing at his mid-section.

A few minutes ago, he was giving me a tour of his L.A. Mansion.

I take my cue from the staff and act like nothing is odd. They carry on with their lunch preparations.

For his part, Robbie heads for the refrigerator, takes out the orange juice, and chugs it from the carton before smacking his lips, wiping them dry on the back of his hand, and putting it away—an easy task since he has stood the whole time in front of open refrigerator door.

He winks at me and walks out. I wait. Interviewing Robbie is a lot of waiting around to be told what to do. When he comes back, he's dressed, including his jacket and a white scarf tied around his neck, cravat style.

"Let's go. I've got a new car."

Yes, he has a new car. It's a DeLorean. He gets into the driver's seat. I sit on the passenger side, not exactly thrilled about risking my life again.

"Is this...?" I ask.

"The one from the movie, yeah."

He zooms past a 'slow children at play' sign. (American sincerity and lack of irony—not to mention a comma--again rising to amuse.) "This road's too short to get up to 85." He shouts over the motor. "So don't worry. No time travel for us today."

Worry about time travel has nothing to do with why I am gripping the door with white knuckles.

I pry my fingers loose and try distracting myself by actually interviewing him instead of just hanging on for the ride, not just the car, but Robbie's life.

Why does he have an obsession with going around with his tackle out?

He answers without a thought. "Same reason I do anything. So people will look at me."

"It's that important to you to have people looking?"

"When people aren't looking, I start to worry that I don't exist."

"Like you're a part of a collective imagination?"

"Like if they change the channel on me, I'll disappear."

It strikes me that he doesn't seem wistful at all when he says this. It's as matter of fact as the sun rising would be to any other person. I am reminded again that he lives in a different world. Famous since he was a child, taken from his family to join a group of boys he hardly knew and never taught how to be a man, his is a world many celebrities don't even know. I've spoken, in preparation for this interview, to others who have interviewed him. Now I understand why they all said that they wished there was a support group for ex-boyband members. I understand better why none of them seemed to be joking.

#

  
From his house, he can look down and see where his best friend Johnny Wilkes lives. I ask him if he set the house up for Johnny so he could see him, in a relative way, whenever he wanted.

"I told Johnny to move into the Valley," he says.

"You don't like having him down there, do you?"

"He's my best friend," he says.

"You wish he hadn't moved out. Hadn't gotten married. Hadn't left you." It feels strange to analyze him so openly, but he doesn't seem bothered. Given how he uses reporters as free therapy, he's probably come to expect it.

"Stay," he says.

I consider what else I have to do before I nod. There is nothing that can't wait. He looks pleased and leaves the room. I stand there for a good twenty seconds before I realize that despite his invitation, I've been dismissed.

I spend the night in a guest _wing_. The bedroom smells like lavender, but the decor isn't what I expect based on the rest of the house, which is filled with so much expensive clutter that it looks like Robbie has never turned down an item that costs more than five hundred dollars, no matter how tacky. The guest room, in contrast, has a sturdy four-poster bed, a solid brown duvet, and white, perfectly fluffed pillows. In the adjoining bath, someone has set out a new toothbrush.

We go out at 7:00 am the next morning. He's going motorbiking and wants me to come along. I tell him that I've covered wars and never come as close to dying as I have this weekend. For some reason, this seems to please him.

#

  
Johnny Wilkes turns up unannounced around midnight. He and his wife have been away to London for the past six weeks. Uncaring of the reporter in their midst, they greet with a kiss on the lips. Robbie's hands linger on Johnny's back. Johnny doesn't seem to mind. It is clear that they have roles with each other, and despite the time apart, they fall into them instantly. Johnny plays 'mother' with the tea as Robbie is the calmest I've seen him in the two days that I've been here. He seems, under Johnny's presence, void of the fears and worries that daily haunt him, those ones that prompted him to carve prayers onto his skin 'for protection'.

#

"We don't talk about it." Johnny Wilkes says.

Taking advantage of Robbie's brief absence to check on the bagel bites--freshly made, not boxed--in the oven (he insists he is the only one who can make them how Johnny likes as Johnny bobs his head in agreement), I ask Johnny how he feels about Robbie's need for him.

"Thought you guys talked about everything."

"Everything except that."

"Except what matters."

Before I can ask him why, he looks straight at me and asks if Robbie has "slept with me yet."

I spit my Heineken.

"I don't mean sex—I mean sleeping. He gets scared, you know. He likes to have someone with him at night."

"Do you wish that you could still be useful to him like that?"

"Useful. Interesting word," Johnny says.

The conversation seems to be at a stand still.

I'm not sure how much of it I can use.

#

  
Three weeks after he sees me off, Robbie is arrested for drunken and lewd behaviour outside a nightclub in West Hollywood. Later, the charge will be amended when his toxicity screens come back. His bloodstream will betray cocaine in his system. He will face a judge who has no patience for celebrities who bounce in and out of rehab, and does not care that Robbie has been sober and clean for three years.

But all of that is ahead of him. For now, he says goodbye to me. I present him with a box of tea, which he accepts with practised graciousness and a kiss on my cheeks that is part air, part contact.  
A hint of saliva lingers where he touched me.

"Forget that girl," he says. "They're never worth it. Trust me."

I know he's not talking about "my" girl. He's been having troubles of his own lately. Ever since he came to L.A., he says, he can't get shagged to save his life. I tell him to be careful. He responds with a smile and, unexpectedly, kisses me on the cheek.

By the time this article comes out, he'll be in his second week at the L.A. County jail, staying in the same cell where they locked up Robert Downey, Jr. He will call me from jail. At first I am flattered, but then I realize he has simply gone down his list of numbers alphabetically and I am the first to respond.

Funny how circular these celebrity lives are. The circular lives of celebrity.

The End

  



End file.
